Torn Asunder
by Ladyhawke 620
Summary: Story number seven - Set ten years after the events of Blackjack. Hawke is called in on an unexpected mission for Michael, and yes, this one's personal.
1. Chapter 1

In the weeks that had passed since the explosion, Saint John had made a slow recovery from his wounds. String still couldn't help but think he was largely to blame, but he was wise enough to realize his brother made his own decisions.

His argument with Dom all those years ago when they'd been doing that stunt and how when it was cold and damp his bones ached like hell came back to haunt him. If he'd thought about it then, when he took a stunt, it didn't begin to touch how he felt some days now. Sighing, he rubbed a weary hand over his eyes watching Sinj work his way through another round of therapy. Jo had stayed and for that he was eternally grateful.

He had to admit, he'd had some doubts there as to whether she would. He knew he hadn't made it easy for her in the beginning and it'd been touch and go there for a while even as to whether Saint John would pull out of it. To this day, he firmly believed his brother would've given up had Jo not returned. He didn't kid himself, she and Sinj would have some major hurdles to face, but he had hope they'd make it. Saint John seemed happier than he'd been in a long time. Cait had been right, and he was glad.

Pushing tiredly to his feet, Hawke rose. He was due in Archangel's office in half an hour and he'd better get moving or he'd be late. For a moment, he toyed with the idea knowing just how much it irritated Michael, but stifling the urge, he pushed it away. Just because he could harangue Michael, didn't mean he should… but it sure was fun, he thought, the first light of the day coming into his blue eyes as they sparkled wickedly.

Saint John looked up, seeing him stand. "You leaving?" he called, Jo standing beside him.

"Yeah," String replied as he tossed up a careless hand in farewell. "Meeting with Michael. Don't want to be late."

Saint John's mouth quirked in wry amusement. "Since when?" he retorted, knowing his younger brother's propensity for pushing Michael's buttons - and loving every minute of it.

Caught, String grinned. "Since now?" he smirked, knowing Saint John had called him on it. "Besides," he said, "If show up early, it'll throw him off his game and he'll be wondering what I'm up to the whole time I'm there."

Saint John grinned himself. String wasn't the only Hawke who'd gotten a wicked sense of humor. "Well, give Michael my love," he teased as he watched his brother go.

String had almost made it to the door, when an uneasy feeling prickled down the back of Saint John's neck. "Watch your back, String," he called out, not sure why the warning was there, but unable to resist it.

"Always do," came the brusque reply as the shorter, slighter dark-haired man slipped out the door.

Pulling up on the parallel bars, sweat dripping down his face, Saint John frowned. "Yeah, right," he muttered wryly.

* * *

Michael's office at Red Star was as pristine as always, cherry wood furniture polished within an inch of it's life, cream-colored carpet immaculate. The man, however, was not; his jacket tossed on a nearby chair, hair rumpled and tie askew it was obvious something was up. Walking in, Hawke did a double take.

"Michael?" he asked, earlier teasing gone as he stepped into the office. "What's up?" Anytime the spy was in this kind of disorder, something major must've happened. He'd seen him face down international threats with more aplomb. Come to think of it, he couldn't think of any time he'd ever seen him look this distraught.

Striding around the desk, Hawke faced his old friend. "Michael, what's wrong?" he demanded worriedly. An uneasy and unwelcome thought crossed his consciousness as he thought of Michael's grown daughter. Where was Angelina anyway? The spy hadn't mentioned her in a long while, and the last he knew, she'd gone overseas after her fiancé's death the year before. Guiltily, he realized he'd been remiss in asking, the trauma and sorrow of Saint John and Jo losing their daughter, Bella and their marriage falling apart pushing everything else from view.

Impatiently, he gripped the spy's shoulder, the icy blue eyes intense. "Is Angelina okay, Michael?" he demanded, anxiety tightening his own chest.

The white-clad spy looked up at him, his one good eye obviously distracted. "Angelina?" he asked, as if puzzled for a moment, trying to place the name. "She's fine," he waved his hand as if the thought was inconsequential. "Why do you ask?"

Hawke drew a relieved breath, feeling his own nerves uncoil. "Then what's up Michael?"

Pulling away, the deputy director paced the length of the room. Watching him, String wasn't sure he'd ever seen him look so distracted, out of sorts. Quite frankly, it was beginning to get on his nerves. By the time his friend spoke, his own emotions were taut.

"Thor recalled Marella to the field."

"What?" Hawke asked in surprise. Marella hadn't done field work in years, concentrating her talents and abilities behind the scenes at Red Star. Quite frankly, he wouldn't have been surprised if she had more to do with the day to day running of the place and the Firm than Michael did.

Archangel scowled, frowning at the interruption.

Raising an eyebrow, Hawke motioned for him to continue.

Raking a hand through his hair, Michael went on. "Anyway, she's been doing a little pinch hitting as of late. All the shake-ups in staff have required it, left us a little at loose ends, if you know what I mean."

Hawke nodded. There was no doubt Freysia's defection earlier this year had had long running consequences, shaking the core of the establishment. It had nearly derailed Hawke's own life, not to mention gotten Seb accused of treason and espionage. It had to have affected the flow of information here as well, creating some holes as well as some nasty opportunities for moles within the organization. It was largely why Hawke had taken back Airwolf despite the committee's very obvious displeasure.

Nonetheless, he was a little surprised to hear of Marella going back to field work. Roughly his age, and amazingly astute he had no doubt she still made a hell of an agent, but Thor was taking a definite risk leaving someone of her expertise and clearance out in the field. "And?" he prodded.

Michael huffed out an exasperated breath as he rounded the desk again, his limp more pronounced as he paced. "She's been missing since Friday."

"She's what?!" Hawke exclaimed furiously, his own voice rising as his startled eyes met the spy's grim gaze. "But today's Monday, Michael! They should've already begun the process of shutting your department down. Why was nothing said before now? Why didn't you say something?"

"Because, dammit," the executive director snarled in frustration, "Nobody saw fit to tell me!"

Shocked, Hawke stared at him. Hadn't told him? Even he couldn't fathom that.

Angrily, Michael slammed his hands to his desk top, frustration seeping out of every pore. He cleared the desk in one exasperated sweep of his arm, folders and files hitting the floor, bowing his head in defeat. "My department has been shut down. The Airwolf project has been shelved as well. The news just came down."

Hawke averted his eyes from the confidential files and folders littering the floor at his feet. He knew he had no business there, and truthfully something of far greater importance to him was on the table.

"What do you want me to do, Michael?" he asked, his voice sober.

Michael plopped down in his chair with a ragged sigh, pulling a folder out of his desk drawer. Silently, he slid it across the desk at him. "The impossible," he muttered, not raising his eyes to look at Hawke.

Eyebrows raising, String shot him a questioning glance as he reached for the file and sat down. Opening it, he quickly skimmed the first couple of pages, going back and re-reading them with a scowl. "A Haversham screen, Archangel? You gotta be kidding me," he growled. "Hell, Michael, the last time I went up against one of them, Saint John and Rivers barely made it out alive, not to mention what it did to the Lady."

"I know," the spy murmured. Saint John and Rivers had been lucky to survive, and he'd been requisitioning parts for Airwolf for weeks.

Hawke sighed, tossing the file folder back on the desk. "Saint John's not up to it Michael. I'm not sure he ever will be, quite frankly. And I'm not sure I am either. The Lady was a mess by the last time we made it through. If my reaction time is any slower…"

The deputy director raised his head, his gaze meeting Hawke's blue one squarely. "You can turn it down, Hawke," he said. "I wouldn't blame you."

String glanced away guiltily, not knowing what to say. After a moment, he spoke. "So, what'll you do?" he asked quietly, somehow already knowing the answer.

"Go after her," his friend shrugged. "What else?"

Hawke frowned, reaching for the folder once again. "I just don't know, Michael. I'm not sure it can be done, and I have to have backup. I can't very well just ask Roper or Rivers to volunteer for what is essentially a suicide mission."

The spy nodded rising, his face somber. "Understood," he said, realizing all too well what he was asking of the younger man as he reached across the desk to clasp the other's hand. His grip tightened as he met his uncertain frown. "And Hawke?"

"Yeah?"

"If you don't take it, I'll understand. I won't hold it against you."

Hawke slid the folder into his inside jacket pocket, meeting the other's sober gaze with his own troubled one. He heaved out a heavy breath. "Right," he sighed. "I'll be in touch." He hesitated, hating to ask, yet knowing he had to. "How long until you leave, Michael?"

Leaning against the desk, Michael met his question with a look of his own. "I leave in the morning. I'm catching a flight out at seven a.m. That's the soonest I can slip past the committee without them suspecting something's up. I'm scheduled to be in Langley in the afternoon for a debriefing."

Hawke nodded grimly, knowing the FIRM's policy on getting caught. Wife or no, Archangel would be expected to let this one play out on its own. They certainly wouldn't want to risk him with the clearance he held as well. Bucking Thor and the committee on this would be tantamount to treason in their eyes - with all the consequences that went with it. And it would only be a matter of hours before they realized what Michael had done.

He really didn't relish the thought of seeing his friend standing before a firing squad. And left up to them, it might very well come to that. "I'll let you know," he said, stepping soberly through the door and into the hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

Tossing and turning, Stringfellow Hawke fought restless dreams tormented by the thought of what he was asking of Cait and the kids, and torn by his conscience. Marella was a friend, had been one in the truest sense, and he couldn't just leave her out there, Michael as well, but the very real possibility was he might not be able to pull this one off. And not only would his life be at risk in it, but either Seb's or Roper's as well. Even for Marella, did he have the right to ask that?

Michael would go after her. There was no doubt of it in his mind. But without him and Airwolf, his chances were slim to none. Even with Airwolf…sighing Hawke flopped over on his back staring at the ceiling. What were his chances? Even supposing he made it in, and by some miracle got Marella out, the committee would skewer him. They were not very forgiving of insubordination, and he knew they wouldn't think twice about eating one of their own. Hawke had been on the receiving end of that fork too many times to think otherwise, Archangel being the only thing that'd pulled his own bacon out of the fire if he were honest. Did he not owe it to him?

But what of Cait and the kids? And could he really ask either Roper or Seb to join him on what he knew was a fool's mission? His gut wrenched at the thought. His life was his own to risk, but theirs…

Exhaling, he scrubbed a tired hand over his face, feeling the scrape of the days beard against his hand. Decision time was at hand. There was no more time left…

Bracing his hand against the mattress, he shoved up, careful not to wake Caitlin. Her sleep had been as uneasy as his own and he knew she must be tired.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he silently contemplated his wife. Reddish brown hair strewn across the pillow, she'd not been happy when he'd told her of Michael's request, but she'd refrained from making any comment of her own one way or the other, letting him make his own decision. Not an easy choice, he knew. He could tell she was worried by the way she'd snapped at the kids at dinner, hustling them off to bed afterwards.

Strong fingers brushed an errant strand away from her face, resting lightly across her bare, freckled shoulder before carefully pulling up the blanket around her. Her beauty and her strength amazed him, he thought, a jolt of longing flowing through him. He only hoped she knew how much.

The clock on the wall gonged 2 a.m. Sighing, String shoved out of bed, sliding on low-slung jeans and a pullover sweater. Saint John…he was going to be hot, if he took the mission and didn't tell him. If…he reminded himself. Assuming, of course he took it.

Hell, who was he kidding? he wondered. He'd known he'd take it from the moment Michael had asked. How could he not? There was nobody else, and it was Marella's life they were talking about.

Barefoot, he slipped across the room and into the hall, his heart heavy. Silently, he wandered into the kids room across the hall pulling up the cover on Amelia's sprawled form and sitting down beside Nicky on his bed. Tanned, square-tipped fingers brushed the boy's hair out of his face before he smoothed a hand over it, rising to his feet.

"You're going to do it, aren't you?" Cait asked, her voice barely a husky whisper from the doorway.

String froze, momentarily paralyzed, before turning to face her. "I have to, Cait," he whispered, regret in every nuance of his voice.

"Yeah, I guessed as much," she answered back, her own voice tear-choked, as she wrapped the quilt tighter around her. "I just wondered how long it'd take you to realize it."

String felt his chest squeeze at the pain in her words, the dim light from the hall reflecting off the tears running down her cheeks. "Longer than you, evidently," he murmured, crossing the darkened room and brushing her damp cheek with his hand. "There's just no other way, Caitlin."

Cait met his eyes, biting down so hard on her lip she could taste the salty tang of blood. "I know," she replied. "I knew it from the moment you told me." She drew a shaky breath. "And I wouldn't have you any other way. I just wish it hurt a little less." Fighting back tears, she wrapped her arms around his waist, even as she buried her head against his chest.

Pulling her close, his own chest aching, his arms tightened around her. He wished there was some assurance he could offer her, but he had none. Not this time.

They stood there in the dim firelight, his arms wrapped around her slighter frame for a long time. Breathing in the scent of the shampoo she used in her hair, feeling the shudder of her tears as she fought for control and knowing there wasn't a thing he could do to change it. At last though, there was no more time. Much as he hated it, he knew it. "I've got to go, Cait," he whispered kissing the top of her head.

"I know," she said, pulling away, her fingers still tangled in his. Reaching up, she brushed his cheek with her hand as if trying to memorize his features even as she stepped away, her fingers trailing down his cheek. "You watch your back, Stringfellow Hawke," she whispered.

"I will," he promised, blue eyes intent as he bent to give her one last kiss. "I love you, Caitlin O'Shaunessy Hawke," he whispered. "You remember that."

"I know," Cait rejoined, giving him a tremulous smile even as she let him go, watching him pull away one step at a time.

Letting her go, he shoved on a pair of shoes, abruptly hurrying down the stairs, not looking back. Silent, swift strides carried him across the aged plank living room floor, grabbing a coat and out the door.

Closing the door with a soft snick behind him, he hurried down the front porch steps towards the dock, finally daring to pause and cast one last glance behind him in the chill, foggy morning air. Hand on the door to the cockpit, the dark blue eyes took in the cabin and home - wondering if he'd ever be back.

* * *

The air around him was still cold, his breath frosting in front of him as he slipped past the rocks lining the entrance to the lair. His steps echoing in the entrance to the cave, String strode inside the lair abruptly glad now the events of the past few weeks had led him to bring the Lady home. Silence wrapped itself around him as he stepped through the ancient rocks, towards the sleek, black helicopter basking in the dim landing lights. Running a hand across her nose, he thought of Dom and his Lady. Absently, he hoped the old man would forgive him for what he was about to take her into, the words trailing out unbidden on a sigh. "I guess it's just you and me, baby," he whispered. What he wouldn't give to have Dom backing him this time.

Reaching inside the cockpit, Hawke pulled out the grey flight suit, the sleek, slick fabric sliding across his fingers. Suppressing a shiver, he slid into the chilly material zipping it up impatiently and reaching for the belt to hold his gun.

A sound somewhere in the darkness behind him startled him. Barely scraping against his hearing, the rasp of stone against stone. Instinct alerting him he was no longer alone, String reached for the .45 laying on the seat in front of him, turning as he did so.

"Freeze!" he growled, clicking the safety off the gun as he drew down, placing Airwolf's armored hide between him and his unexpected company.

Two grey-clad figures in flight suits similar to his, stepped out of the shadows even as he waited. The first raising his hands and making sure they were in plain sight.

"You know Hawke, your manners leave something to be desired," Roper remarked grinning.

Recognizing him, String clicked the safety back on the gun as he slid it into his belt. "Well, yours are going to get you killed one of these days," he retorted.

"Maybe," the younger man acknowledged with a grin.

"No maybe about it," Hawke replied, inclining his head. "And with my luck, I'll be the one to do it," his wry grin belied his words though.

The blond-streaked, dark haired pilot rolled his eyes. Beside him, Seb smirked. "Okay, you two," he said. "I thought we were here for a reason. Let's get this show on the road already.''

String gave a huff as he shot his brother Seb a sharp look, his own grin dissolving as if it'd never been. "Right," he said, on a heavy breath. "Michael's plane leaves in a couple hours, providing of course he can slip past Thor and his minions. We need to get in and get out, preferably before he ends up in harm's way. I'd rather not have to go back in to rescue him as well."

Serious, blue eyes a shade darker than Hawke's met his. Quietly, he voiced the question that had occurred to all of them. "Do you really think we can get Marella out?" he asked.

Roper narrowed his gaze on the older pilot, watching.

Hawke sighed, answering with a shrug. "Don't know, Seb," he said grimly. "It's a crap-shoot, but I have to try."

His brother nodded, jaw tightening, saying nothing.

"You don't have to go…" Hawke began. He had enough doubts about this mission on his own, he couldn't blame the others for having a few of their own.

"No," Seb said emphatically. "I don't. But I am." His tone was serious, certain as he met his brother's eyes.

String gave him a single nod, saying nothing. He had his doubts about how wise a plan that was, but he couldn't deny he was glad to have his brother Seb backing him. He might lack Dom's experience, but he was every bit as dogged.

"What about you, Roper?" he asked inclining his head. "You don't have to go, you know. Seb can back me and no one will think any the less of you for not going."

The blue-eyed pilot grinned, challenge lighting his eyes under the shock of light brown hair. "Hey," he said as he clapped String on the shoulder, "The Lady's my girl, too. I'm not letting you hog her. Besides, somebody has to make sure you bring her back safe and sound."

Hawke grinned at his oldest son, and shook his head laughing in spite of himself as he swung up into Airwolf's cockpit. Like it or not, the boy had inherited his penchant for trouble. He could only hope he'd also inherited his talent for survival.

* * *

Saint John Hawke collapsed into the wheelchair with a groan. A fine sheen of sweat coating his arms, he was to the point that he really didn't care how he got back to his room, so long as he did. He knew the hospital would be releasing him in a couple days and he'd have to make it on his own then, but for once he was in no hurry to go.

Beside him, Jo walked in silence as the nurse pushed him back to his room from the rehab floor. The nurse chattered enough for both of them as she kept up a cheerful running monologue. Unfortunately, Saint John couldn't have repeated a word of what she'd said in the last five minutes he realized as he shot a worried look at Jo, her arms clasped tightly around her body as if she had a perpetual chill.

Back in the room, the nurse, he vaguely remembered her name as Kylie, beamed at him as she put the brakes on the chair. "Want me to give you a hand back into bed?" she asked, offering him a strong, slender arm her green eyes sparkling. "I know the guys down in rehab worked you pretty hard. You must be beat."

Startled, he looked up at her and shook his head. There was a time a beautiful, young red-head making the offering would've more than caught his attention. Now, he thought ruefully, he barely even noticed her, his eyes and his thoughts on the silent blond with troubled blue eyes across the room from him.

"Nah," he commented. "But thanks," he said, sparing her a warm hazel glance. "I think I'll just stay here for a few minutes."

The red-head frowned momentarily as she looked at him. "You're sure?" she asked uncertainly.

"Yeah," he replied, giving her a brief smile. "I'll give you a call if I need some help," he promised.

She nodded, her gaze flitting between him and the blond-haired woman in the room. "Okay," she said eyeing them both. "You just remember, you promised me before you decide to go off wandering around on your own." Patting him on the shoulder, she slipped out of the room leaving them, giving a shrug as she went. Admittedly, she kinda liked her rangy patient, wouldn't have minded a chance to get to know him better, but…

"She likes you, you know," Jo said quietly as the door closed behind the young red-head.

Saint John threw a glance over his shoulder at the door. "Maybe," he allowed, the hazel eyes now watching her.

Restlessly, Jo paced the room. "She's a pretty, young thing," she commented, not meeting his eyes.

The hazel eyes narrowed assessing. "She's not you," he said bluntly. "Spill it, Jo. What's really up?"

Halting, she ceased her restless pacing, a sense of dread and unease crawling through her at the thought of this conversation. She'd known it would come though, eventually.

"Jo?" Saint John whispered, reaching out his hand. "Come here."

Raising her head, she faced him, her eyes guarded and sad.

He inclined his head, motioning to her, even as he reached for her. Grasping her hand, he tugged her towards him and the bed. "Have a seat," he murmured, fighting down the fear clutching at his chest. Surely, she wasn't thinking of leaving now, he thought wildly. Forcing the words past his lips with a false nonchalance he sure didn't feel, he said, "Talk to me, Jo."

Tugging her fingers free from his, Jo crossed suddenly cold arms. She drew in an unsteady breath, wondering where to begin.

"I was thinking maybe, it was time I moved out," she murmured.

"Why?" Saint John bit out, his words abruptly harsh. "I thought we agreed you'd stay at the apartment while I was in the hospital."

"That's just it, Sinj!" Jo exclaimed, her slender hands gesturing wildly, as enormous blue eyes implored him to understand. "You're about to not be! You'll be getting out in a couple days, and…"

"So?" Saint John growled. "What's your point?"

"You'll want your space, to get back into your routine. I just think you'd be more comfortable without me underfoot all the time…

"Why the hell would you think that?" Saint John snarled, finesse sliding out the window. "I want you, Jo! That was the point of you staying there, that was the point of me marrying you in the first place! I thought you understood that."

Pain was clutching at his chest now, whether it was from her words or his wounds, he couldn't say. All he knew was if she left, it didn't much matter.

Jo just stared at him, tears running down her face. "It's not that simple, Saint John!" she yelled, her own emotions out of control.

Saint John clenched his jaw, trying desperately to rein his own temper in. "Why not?" he demanded through clenched teeth. "I love you, I need you! What could be more simple than that?" The pain was raging through his ribs now, as he shoved to his feet to face her.

Jo threw her hands up in the air, blue eyes blazing. "We can't just pick up where we left off, Sinj! Bella's gone, we have to deal with that!"

Deal with it?" he snarled, clutching the bed rail. "She's gone! What more do you want me to do, Jo? I can't change it. Believe me, I would if I could."

"I know, Sinj," Jo sobbed.

"Jo, I still want you," he pleaded. "I still want an us. And if God saw fit, I'd still want another child."

Jo gaped at him incredulous. "How can you say that?" she cried incoherently, tears sliding down her cheeks. "I can't just replace her!"

Kylie walked into the room, lunch tray and meds in hand, long reddish braid swinging behind her. "Lunch time, Mr. Hawke…"

Fighting down a sob, Jo shoved past her out the door.

"Jo!" Saint John yelled. "Wait!"

Stunned, green eyes took in the scene, not registering his wavering stance, just the chaos. "I'm s-sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean to come at a bad time…"

Saint John's clenched fingers slipped from the rail as he took a staggering step back. "No, you're just in time," he muttered as his knees gave way beneath him. "I need some help…" he whispered bowing his head, as the room went fuzzy around him.

Aghast, training kicking in before rational thought, Kylie dropped the tray, lunging for him before he hit the floor. Catching him, she staggered beneath his weight as she eased him down with her to the tile.


	3. Chapter 3

Fuming, Marella Coldsmith Briggs crossed her arms and paced the 9 x 9 cell. "How stupid could I be?" she ranted, heels clicking against the hard concrete floor. "I can't believe, I let myself get caught with such a…"

A heavy footstep in the hallway outside her cell, had her spinning abruptly - to face the last person in the world she would've expected to see.

"Oh, I don't know, my dear. You were, after all, going up against the very best," he said congenially.

"Michael?" she breathed in stunned confusion, the brown eyes going wide. "But how? Why?"

Thor stepped up behind the deputy director, clamping a powerful hand on his shoulder as he did so. The smile was friendly, but the eyes were cold and hard. "Because, I said so, Marella. And I'm the one who gives the orders around here. It's high time you and a few others got used to that fact."

Stunned, Marella's gaze volleyed between the head of the Firm who'd evidently decided to freelance and her husband. Michael a traitor? No, it couldn't be! she thought frantically. It wasn't possible!

"Time to go, Archangel," Thor commanded arrogantly, turning on his heel to go. Cane in hand, Michael followed without another word.

Stupefied, Marella gaped after them for a long moment before her brain kicked into gear. "Michael!" she yelled, flinging herself at the bars, shouting her husband's name. "Michael!"

He kept walking.

* * *

"Any luck updating those files?" String queried, shooting Seb a quick glance over his shoulder.

"Not yet," he replied, his tone harried. "For whatever reason, I'm having trouble getting data on the satellite's path over the last day or so."

"Trouble, how?" String demanded, his eyes narrowing, accessing.

"Don't know," Seb answered. "The data should be there. My security clearance should access it no problem."

"But?…"

"The computer says it's not there. Marella ordered the shift in orbit, so it should be there, but it's not…"

"Great," Hawke sighed.

Roper shot him a glance from the co-pilot's seat. "You're still going in?"

String shot him a startled, blue-eyed glance. "Yeah," he retorted, as if the answer should've been obvious. "Nothing's changed."

Roper tried not to gape at him. "What do you mean nothing's changed? Without the satellite pictures, you'll have no idea where the main cannons and surface to air missiles are. Nobody can run a Haversham without some idea where the ground fire is coming from. There's no way to take it out! They'll slaughter you!"

"Makes it harder," String replied laconically.

"Makes it harder?" the younger man intoned. "Hawke!" he blurted. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope," he said matter-of-factly, shaking his head. "I'll just have to run the gauntlet and hope for the best. You and Seb will go in on foot."

"On foot?" Roper shot a glance to Seb hoping for a little support and to check to see if he was the only one who'd noticed Hawke had taken leave of his senses.

Seb shrugged, as if to say, 'Not a thing I can do about it.'

Rolling his eyes, Roper turned back to his father. "One mistake and they'll blow you and Airwolf right out of the sky!"

"I'm aware of that," Hawke said succinctly, eyeing his son. "That's why you and Seb are going in on foot."

"But you're flying?" he huffed, exasperated.

"Yeah."

"So, why can't you go in on foot?" he demanded.

String shot him a look of exaggerated patience. "Because somebody has to fly in. They're expecting it, and because it'll give you cover to get in and get out."

"I don't like it," he retorted hotly.

Hawke shot him a cutting look. "You don't have to. That's the way it is."

Angrily, Roper glared at him.

The claxion of the communications alarm interrupted the battle of wills. Punching a row of buttons, Seb brought it online. Lauren's white-clad image popped up almost immediately.

"Hey guys," she said, getting straight to the point. "Michael left on time." She drew a breath, a fine line crossing the delicate features. "I tried to access the info you asked about, Seb. It's not there."

"What do you mean, not there?" he queried.

"Exactly that, Seb. The files aren't there. I checked myself."

"Marella ordered the change in trajectory," he argued.

"I know she did. I saw her do it," She agreed. "Want me to have Brian look into it on my end?"

"No," Hawke cut across. "Stay out of it Lauren and keep your husband out as well."

"But…"

"I've got a bad feeling about this," String said. "You go poking around, there's nobody there to watch your back with Michael and Marella gone."

"Yeah, but…"

"Look," Hawke said, gentling his tone. "I know Marella's your friend, too. All I'm asking is for you to wait 'til someone can back you up."

The blond frowned, worrying her lip. "Fine," she muttered unhappily. "I'll wait…for now."

"That's my girl," String smiled, bestowing on her one of his rare grins.

She signed off.

"Seb, get me the charts you've got of the area and let's figure out how you two are going in," Hawke commanded.

Clicking came from the back as his fingers clattered across the keys.

"Think she'll wait 'til we get back?" Roper asked.

Hawke glanced at his son. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"That'd be a no," Roper said wryly. "Great." Frowning, he poured through the files Seb was pulling up and scrolling across his screen.

* * *

Restlessly, Caitlin Hawke paced the length of the cabin. She'd done it so many times she could count the number of paces it took to go from one side to the other. Fifty-seven.

Dumping the cup of coffee she held, in the kitchen sink, she ground her teeth in frustration. Somehow, someway there had to be something she could do to help. Impatiently, she grabbed her coat and slipped out the front door of the cabin, latching it behind her.

* * *

Landed in a small field under the cover of darkness, the black metallic skin gleamed dully in the moonlight. The scene might be peaceful, but the tempers were not.

Kneeling in front of Airwolf, the dim glow of the lantern illuminating the ground in front of him, Hawke laid out his plan. "Go in here, from the east," he said quietly. "Slide up to the wall. There's no sign of barriers on the scanners up to that point. You'll hear the alarms go off when Airwolf crosses here. You'll have to scale the wall and work your way in from there."

"How long?" Seb asked, his blue eyes worried.

String rubbed his chin. "Should be at least five minutes before they realize anyone has penetrated their borders. The Lady will draw her attention at least that long. Once they realize it though, you're on your own. They've got enough firepower to stop a small army, so I suggest you don't dawdle."

Roper frowned. The plan while solid, left a lot of room for disaster. "So, how do we find Marella once we're in?" he asked.

String sighed, pointing with a blunt finger to the far side of the rudimentary map. "Heaviest point of activity is here. That'd be my guess for Von der Berg's center of operation."

Roper scowled looking at it.

"It's still a guess, though," String admitted.

The younger man shifted, trying to restore blood flow to his legs. "Lot of room for error," he commented bitterly, the blue eyes cold.

"Yeah, there is," String agreed tersely.

"I still don't see why you need to mount an aerial assault. Ground assault has a much better chance of success," he challenged.

"You're going to have to have some way to get out of there," Hawke retorted in exasperation. If Airwolf makes it, then she's it. If not, I should be able to take down enough of the Haversham screen that you and Seb working together should be able to manage to get one of those gunships out of there. Lot better odds, than by jeep. Just make sure you don't leave any of those 'copters able to get off the ground, besides yours."

Seb rose to his feet. "I'll go grab the gear," he commented quietly, wise enough not to get between String and his son. He might not like it, but he knew String's plan was their best chance.

"Hawke, come in with us," Roper pleaded. You've got the combat experience. Three will cover the ground more quickly than two…"

"Can't," String replied. "And you know it."

"You're a fool!" Roper spat out, his temper flaring. "A bloody-minded fool, and you're going to get yourself killed!"

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Finished?" he asked.

"No, I'm not!" Roper growled. "I know you've flown a Haversham twice before, and I know you've made it - but barely. All it takes is one mistake, Hawke. What makes you so certain you won't make that mistake?"

"Nothing," came the implacable, one word answer.

"Then why?" he growled.

Hawke's hand came down solidly on his son's shoulder. The dark blue eyes sought his. "Listen," he said. "I'm not exactly excited about this, but I don't see any other way. Marella's my friend, I owe her. Not to mention, she has enough secrets locked up in that pretty head of hers to make a her a very real security risk if they turn her. I can't let that happen. Neither can you. Do you hear me?"

The younger man glowered sulkily, defeat bitter on his tongue. "Yeah, I hear you," he grumbled.

"Good," Hawke commented, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

"Ready?" Seb asked, returning from the Lady, gear in hand.

Glaring, Roper scowled before moving away to snatch up his own gear.

Hawke sighed, looking after his son. "Watch out for him, will ya?" he asked his younger brother.

Seb nodded soberly. "You know I will, String. You just watch out for yourself, okay?"

"Yeah," he replied, his eyes still on his son. He turned and faced his brother, giving him a brief hug. "Watch your back," he muttered, his own throat tight.

Seb drew back, his own eyes worried. "You too," he rasped.

* * *

Sighing, Marella perched on the edge of the sparsely made bunk, the rough wool of the thin blanket scratching the backs of her legs. Glumly, she evaluated her prospects.

She'd been here since Friday - at best guess it was Monday now. Long enough for someone to have noticed she was missing, but with Michael here she had to question that possibility.

What was he doing here? She wondered, nails worrying the rough nubs of the blanket beneath her fingertips. She was pretty sure his arrival was a new development. Had he informed anyone she was missing, before he'd disappeared himself?

Shoving off the bed, she rose; pacing the small cell again as she thought. He'd been under the influence of something - maybe, the missing vial of benzodiapine? That'd explain a lot. But why? What was Thor up to?

The latch clanked open as the door behind her slid open. A solid looking guard stood there, gun in hand - and just as clearly keeping a safe distance between them. He might shoot her, but she wouldn't disarm him. "Let's go, Mrs. Briggs," he said coldly. "Dr. Von der Berg is waiting to see you."

* * *

Airwolf rose slowly off the ground in the dimming light, rotors gradually picking up speed and their eerie howling trill echoing on the wind as well. All the flight controls that could be transferred from engineering to Hawke's control had been. The moment of truth was at hand.

Eyes trained on the monitor, he gauged time and distance as he waited for Seb and Roper to make the first wall. His watch ticked off the remaining minutes, the second hand hitting the twelve.

Easing back on the collective, Airwolf rose into the air, her nose pointing eastward. Swinging her tail boom around, Hawke hit the turbos, beginning his run low and fast over the rough, rugged terrain. Almost instantly, within seconds flak exploded off to his left. Swinging right, he rolled the helicopter hard avoiding the cannon fire. Another round exploded in front of him, the visor slamming down over his eyes at the last second.

Hauling back on the stick, Hawke slammed the Lady into a climb so steep, he could feel himself graying out from the g-forces. "Come on, baby, climb," he muttered, "or we're both toast."


	4. Chapter 4

Mike Rivers strode confidently into the offices of Red Star, whistling cheerfully as he went. Flight tests on the new chopper he'd been testing for Michael had gone like a dream, and while she wasn't Airwolf the Raven might prove every bit as deadly.

Grinning, he pounded up the stairs to Michael's office, finding the elevator too slow. Giving the door at the top of the stairs a hard shove, he strode into Michael's outer office.

He drew up short, realizing he was the only one here. Where was Lauren anyway? He wondered, scowling. Michael's office, maybe? Suddenly silent, he slipped across the carpeted floor, the sense something was wrong beating at him with wings of ever increasing strength.

Briefly, he debated the wisdom of checking Michael's office. Sneaking up on the spy was something he had no real desire to do, but the way things had been around here lately, he knew better than to just assume all was well. Carefully, he eased the double door open, jumping himself as it creaked.

Startled, Lauren sucked in an abrupt breath, grabbing for the papers that threatened to escape her grip. Startled violet eyes flew to the door as she clutched the file to her breast.

"Rivers!" she breathed, the sound relieved and irritated all at once.

Eyeing her, Mike quirked an eyebrow. "Where's Michael, Lauren?" he asked quietly.

"Not here," she said, hurriedly rising from her knees and slamming the file drawer shut behind her. She stepped in front of the cabinet like doing so would hide it from prying eyes.

His gaze narrowed on her appraisingly.

Stepping inside the office, he reached behind him and closed the door with a sharp click, his eyes never leaving her face. "Then suppose you tell me where he might be."

* * *

Impatiently, Saint John Hawke waited for Caitlin to pick him up. The release papers had been signed, his bags packed.

Jo hadn't been back after their fight. He'd had the devil's own time convincing Kylie not to report what had happened to the doctor. He still wasn't sure how he'd managed it, but he was aware of her sharp gaze on him as they waited for Caitlin to bring the car around.

It was obvious she was fighting her own curiosity - and losing.

"So,…she's your wife?" she asked, shifting awkwardly.

There really was no point in ducking the question. They both knew who she was talking about. He sighed. "Yeah."

"You don't sound very happy about that."

He scowled. Where the heck was Cait anyway? "It's complicated," he muttered.

Kylie winced. She'd seen cactuses not as prickly as he was this morning. "She come back?" she asked, the green eyes sympathetic.

"No," he replied tersely, ready to go hunt Caitlin down himself.

Kylie looked down, shifting her weight awkwardly. She knew he was hurting, didn't appreciate her prodding, but she couldn't leave it alone.

"Bella your daughter?"

Scowling, Saint John leveled angry hazel eyes on her. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," he declared, his tone bitter. A pregnant moment passed between them, as he fought with himself over the next question. "How'd you know?" he asked finally.

"Just guessing," she said quietly. "When you first came in, you talked a lot in your sleep. I was on night duty then. Everything was String and Bella. I've met String, but never Bella. You always seemed upset when you mentioned Bella. When Jo showed up, it wasn't much of a leap."

Saint John thought so, thinking perhaps the girl should be working for Michael with her powers of observation. Vaguely he recalled waking up in the beginning, far too many nights in far too much pain. More often than not before Jo returned, Kylie had been there at his bedside holding his hand and whispering soothing words of comfort when even String had been collapsed in the uncomfortable bedside chair. He'd once asked her about it and she'd merely shrugged, saying her break time was her own.

He sighed. She'd been a friend when he'd needed one and he knew it, whether he acknowledged it or not. Honesty demanded he did. He shifted awkwardly in the wheelchair, not looking at her.

"Yeah, Bella was my daughter," he said huskily. "She drowned last year. The marriage kinda fell apart after that," he said, his voice tight.

Kylie blinked back tears at the pain in his voice. She'd pretty much figured as much.

A gentle feminine hand came down on his shoulder, the move comforting. "She came back," she said quietly. "Surely that must count for something." She felt the muscles in his shoulder bunch as he shifted again, refusing to look at her.

"I thought so, too," he said quietly. "Looks like I was wrong." The pain in his voice was raw and fresh.

Kylie swallowed hard against the lump in her own throat. "Did you know I was married?" she asked brightly.

Saint John frowned at the sudden change of subject, clearly at a loss. Quite frankly, he'd been so wrapped up in his own pain and loss he'd given little thought to anyone else. "No," he muttered finally.

The slender red-head came around front and knelt in front of him, the green eyes locking with his. She reached for his hand and wrapped her fingers tightly around his. Saint John let her, feeling a little awkward about it. Silently, she looked away for a moment and when her gaze met his again, this time her eyes were filled with tears.

"I know you're mad at Jo, Saint John and I can't blame you. You got a raw deal, but you need to understand so did she."

Scowling, Saint John started to protest, to drag his hand away.

Kylie tightened her grip on his and her voice hardened. "I mean it, Saint John Hawke," she said, refusing to let go. "I've been where you both are."

He froze in mid-move, pinioned by her words.

Looking away, she continued. "I was married five years ago. Yeah, I'm older than I look," she continued ruefully, catching his startled gaze. We'd been trying to get pregnant for what seemed like forever. And then suddenly we had this beautiful, perfect, baby boy.

Man, I was over the moon," she whispered huskily, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles. A sad smile teased at her lips, as tears tracked down her cheeks.

She drew a shaking breath, forcing her eyes up to meet his. "I was coming home from work one night, it was late. I'd picked him up from the sitters. Car crossed over the center line, hit us head on."

A sick feeling of what was to come soaked through Saint John, but he couldn't move, couldn't speak. Captured by her words, he just sat there, frozen, listening, feeling the growing lump in his own throat.

"Sam was killed on impact," she said, her voice tear-choked. "I walked away with a concussion and a couple broken ribs. The other driver didn't even get that. Didn't seem hardly fair, you know. How could I still be here, and he be gone?"

She looked down, searching for strength to go on. "I was so damn angry. It had to be my fault - I was driving. Why hadn't I swerved in time, been earlier, been later…been anywhere else? Mark, my husband tried. The other driver was drunk. I couldn't have done anything different, the list goes on."

The tears were streaming down her face now. "Ultimately, it didn't much matter, I guess. I blamed myself too much to listen and finally, in the end he gave up and left."

Saint John just stared at her, his own hazel eyes filled with tears. "So, what'd you do?" he asked, his own voice husky. Suddenly, her answer was of earth shattering importance to him.

"Finally realized the truth," she said tightly. "He was right. There was nothing I could do to save Sam. Unfortunately, it took me losing my husband to realize that."

She swallowed, her green eyes earnest as she looked him in the face. "Unless I miss my guess, Saint John, Jo feels much the same as I did. So guilty she can't believe you could ever forgive her. She hates herself, and she thinks you ought to hate her too."

"It was an accident," he muttered thickly.

"Did you ever tell her that?"

"No," he murmured softly, looking away. "It just hurt too bad after she died, and then Jo was gone. I just couldn't reach her no matter what I said."

Kylie looked at him. "Tell her again, Saint John. Don't make the same mistake I did."

* * *

A dark blue jeep pulled up easing around the loop and Cait hopped out. "Hey Sinj, sorry 'bout that," she exclaimed. "Traffic was a nightmare. I thought I'd never get here."

Saint John nodded. "Not a problem," he said absently, his eyes never leaving Kylie's.

Stunned, Cait stared. A Hawke not chomping at the bit to be out of the hospital? She couldn't believe her ears.

Giving Saint John a small smile, Kylie leaned over and offered him her arm as he rose stiffly from the wheelchair. "You remember what I said," she said quietly.

Turning his head, he gave pulled her close and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. "I will," he promised, the hazel eyes intent as he face her. "And Kylie?"

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Thanks."

"Anytime," she whispered, brushing her hand across his cheek with a tremulous smile. "Anytime."

Handing his bag to Cait, the nurse turned and pushed the wheelchair back towards the hospital, tossing up a hand in farewell.

Frowning, Caitlin looked from her brother-in-law to the nurse and back again. Just what exactly had she missed? "Anything I should know?" she asked archly, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope," Saint John said, shooting her a sudden grin and acting more like his old self. "Not a thing," he rejoined as he clambered into the jeep. " Now drive, woman. Drive!" he ordered with a glint in his eye.

Shaking her head, Cait hopped into the jeep and hit the accelerator, pulling out.


	5. Chapter 5

Van der Berg turned out to be a slight man, graying at the temples, the kind of man you'd meet on the street and never think twice about. Almost innocuous in his blandness, an easily dismissed threat, icy blue eyes were his only distinguishing feature. Marella would've dismissed him out of hand, except…shaking her head, she couldn't put her finger on it, but suddenly she knew deep within her soul dismissing him would be a fatal mistake.

"Mrs. Briggs," he greeted her, a faint, cold smile crossing his lips. "At last we meet…your husband has told me so much about you."

* * *

"So, where the heck is he?" Roper demanded, throwing a worried look over his shoulder at the sky.

"He'll be here," Seb assured him, praying he was right. Getting in without Airwolf would be almost impossible, and he didn't want to think about what no Airwolf meant where Hawke was concerned.

A screaming howl slammed into his ears. Instantly, both of their gazes were pulled skywards, a relieved smile crinkling the corners of Roper's eyes. "He made it!" he crowed.

"Was there ever any doubt?" Seb retorted, grinning in relief.

Roper shook his head with an amused huff, knowing he wasn't the only one who'd been worried. Turning back to the task at hand, he grabbed hold of the rope dangling from the grappling hook overhead and began hauling himself up and over the wall. Grunting, Seb shouldered his gun and did the same.

Overhead, he could hear the rattle of machine gun fire as it slammed into Airwolf's armor-plated hide as she swooped past. "Better hope they don't catch that tail rotor," Seb panted as he grabbed hold of Roper's hand to drag himself up the last couple feet.

Gripping his hand, the younger pilot hefted him up, blue eyes scanning the sky overhead as he did so. A black streak climbed high sweeping left abruptly, barely missing an incoming rocket. It dropped a sunburst diverting another sidewinder, the shockwave from the explosion shaking the wall beneath his feet.

Throwing his hands up reflexively, Seb ducked. "Too hot for me out here!" he yelled, over the explosion. "Get a move on!"

Jolting into action, Roper loped for the nearby entrance. Feeling hot shrapnel raining down around him, he didn't have to be asked twice. Heavy boots slammed along the concrete walkway as he headed for the door, Seb right behind him.

Reaching the landing, Roper flattened himself against the rough wall. "Well?" he asked the other, eyeing the heavy latch.

"Good a way as any," Seb panted. He started to reach for the pack of C-4 he carried and the electric charge.

Abruptly, Roper's hand swung out, stilling him, motioning him to wait. Back up against the wall, he flattened himself even further as the door suddenly swung open. A single man in military gear strode out radio in hand.

Motioning for silence, Roper slid up behind him, his pack dropping to the ground in the open doorway.

The man spun his gun in hand as he heard the pack hit.

Seb lunged, diving for him even as he raised the gun firing. Nowhere to go, Roper flung himself at the ground.

Shoulder first Seb slammed into the man, the force of his lunge slamming them both to the ground hard. He felt the impact shudder through his body as they both hit, driving the wind out of his lungs.

The man came up swinging, a solid fist creasing him across the jaw. Reeling, he blocked, throwing back a fist of his own. A beefy hand caught it, blocked. Twisting his body, Seb swung another - this one connecting. Catching him solidly in the jaw, the surprised sentry went down.

Adrenaline jolting through his veins, Roper shoved up from the ground near the wall. Wide-eyed and breathing hard, he reached down a hand to haul Seb to his feet as he picked up the sentry's dropped gun.

"Close call," he rasped. "Thanks. I owe you one."

Breathing hard himself, Seb nodded. "Just don't make it a habit."

Roper shook his head. "Not me, man."

Guns in hand they walked through the open doorway, a breath apart.

* * *

Tall and solidly built, the man with the cold, grey eyes paced the room. Wide-shouldered and frowning, he eyed the blond-haired man seated before him, his hair starting to streak with grey.

Already, the man showed signs of strain as he fought the hefty dose of Benzodiapine that flowed through his veins. Archangel hadn't gone easily, he mused, thinking of how the spy had fought the mind-altering drug.

Thor might've gained the upper-hand for now, but he didn't kid himself it'd last. The only question was, would he keep it long enough to gain his goal before Michael's determination killed him. Fine lines of strain were already showing in the spy's face, a noticeable tremor in his hands from the high drug dose.

His doctors had already warned him, saying the spy could collapse at any time; the dose bordered on lethal. "Tsk, tsk, Michael," he sighed. "You always did have to make everything so difficult. If you hadn't joined forces with Hawke on that blasted helicopter, that particular problem would've long since been resolved."

Seated, the spy stared straight ahead making no sign that he heard him, his jaw clenched and his one good eye fever bright. Trembling his hands fisted on the table, his whole body bowstring tight.

Sighing in exasperation, Thor scowled eyeing him. No, he'd be lucky if he managed to keep him alive long enough to meet his goal. Damn shame, the man was an exceptional agent; it'd be a pity to lose him. Still, casualties were a fact of war.

"Fine, Michael," he snarled. "Have it your way, but I will win this hand, make no doubt of it. If it takes destroying you, Hawke and Airwolf to do it, so be it. Seething, he strode out of the room, door slamming behind him.

Archangel flinched, the single deep blue eye going wide, pupil dilated 'til it looked almost black. His mind frantically told him to fight, even as it flailed against the confines of his unwilling body. White knuckled, his fingers clenched on the edge of the table fighting for control even as his heart pounded desperately in his throat.

* * *

Forehead leaned against her knees and back against the wall, Marella waited. That was all she could do, that and pray for an opportunity. Thor's arrogant presence and lack of subtlety gave evidence to the fact he didn't have any intention of any of them walking out of here. She didn't have to know what he was up to, to understand that.

Closing her eyes, her fingers tightened on the makeshift shiv she held. Who would've thought yesterday, she'd be planning a way to do in her boss and the head of a top secret covert U.S. government agency.

* * *

Swooping low over the ground, Airwolf skimmed the tree tops, her easy grace making it look lazy. The reality was anything but. On his own, with no weapons engineer, Hawke was scrambling. Rolling into an Immelman turn, he narrowly avoided the sidewinder aimed in his direction as it exploded into the canyon wall behind him.

Pulling back on the collective with one hand, he hauled back on the cyclic punching the turbos home. G-forces slamming him back into the seat, Airwolf climbed, a sunburst taking out the missile on her tail. Rolling left, chain guns rattled taking out a perimeter defense.

Howling challenge, the sleek black helicopter rolled belly-up, outmaneuvering a sparrow missile, coming down behind it and blasting it out of the sky. Radar screamed in Hawke's ear, warning him of an incoming missile. Banking, he deployed chaff, cutting turbos and praying his guess on the missile was right. Eyes narrowing, he watched it tear past him, seconds before he fired on it. Missile exploding, Airwolf streaked through the resulting flames and debris, smoke and fire curling under her rotors as she did so.

Hawke huffed a relieved breath, fingers flexing on the cyclic. One down, three to go.

* * *

Boots slamming down the hallway, Seb and Roper went through the rooms one by one, guns drawn. Room after empty room, frustration mounted, knowing with each passing second their chances of getting caught increased.

"Cover me," Roper ground out, poised to begin the next hall. Seb nodded, blue eyes making contact briefly.

Flinging himself across the doorway, Roper drew in a deep breath before he turned, cautiously reaching for the door handle. Sidling down the wall, Seb provided cover, String's Walther PPK in hand.

"Nothing," Roper exclaimed in disgust, eyeing the commercial refrigeration units and vials littering the tables. "Unless you're a mad scientist, of course."

Seb jerked his head towards the door. "Let's go. We're running out of time."

Overhead, Airwolf's engines screamed, rattling glass beakers beside him. String was here and their time was about gone. The thud of answering cannon fire reverberated in the air around them.

Roper shot a worried look to Seb, even as he charged out the door.

The corridor took a sharp turn to the left, forcing a decision. Stay on the main hallway or take their chances on the lesser used corridor. Seb shrugged, clearly leaving the decision up to Roper.

The younger man heaved an uneasy sigh. "Split up," he ordered. "We've got to check both, and we're out of time."

Seb nodded in agreement, moving off to the right.

Back against the wall, Roper sidled down the corridor. Peering in a small reinforced window in the door, he ascertained the room was empty before moving on to the next. It too was empty. "Great," he muttered. A sound alerted him to movement nearby.

Ducking, he crouched, left hand going out to the floor momentarily for balance. Startled, he snatched his hand back as warm, stickiness slid across his fingertips. Almost instinctively, he brought his fingers to his nose, sniffing. The coppery tang of blood assaulted his nostrils.

"Damn," he muttered, seeing the warm puddle oozing out from beneath the door. Clenching the Beretta in hand, he reached out for the door handle, roughly kicking it open as he stepped into the room weapon in hand.

Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, codename Archangel faced him gun in hand.

"Michael?" he questioned. How the heck, had the spy beaten him in? he wondered, reaching to slide the gun into his waistband. "What're you doing here?"

The spy made no comment, to all intents seemingly frozen.

"Michael?" Roper queried, frowning in puzzlement. "You okay? Michael?"

The weapon he held hit the ground with a dull thud, as Archangel seemingly collapsed in upon himself. Bonelessly, he slumped towards the floor, Roper frantically scrambling to catch him before he hit. "What the…? Michael?" he exclaimed, as he caught him. Grabbing the older man firmly around the waist and slinging his left arm over his shoulder he took the other man's weight. Staggering, he made for the main corridor and Seb. There was no way he could continue the search for Marella on his own.

* * *

Seb Hawke silently worked his way down the hall. Another empty room, presented itself, this one with all sorts of high tech looking equipment. Frowning, Seb decided he didn't know what most of it was for, and he didn't think he really wanted to.

Still no Marella though. Where was she? He thought. Turning, he headed back down the corridor.

Impatience making him incautious, he turned the next door handle, finding it gave easily in his hand. Rushing through the door, he abruptly found himself slammed up against the wall a sharp knee to the groin and a shiv against his throat.

Groaning he fought to breathe, pain hazing his thoughts, stunned blue eyes wide as he struggled for air.

Dark brown eyes glared at him, their gaze cold, hard, softening as they recognized him.

"Seb?" she whispered huskily, easing her weight off his throat.

"Marella?" he rasped in disbelief. Hell, this woman had got herself caught? How? Ruefully he rubbed his throat amazed she hadn't crushed his windpipe. If she was the loser of that battle, he sure didn't want to meet the other guy.

"What're you doing here?" she demanded.

"Rescuing you," the younger man gritted. "Leastwise, that's what I thought."

Realizing the makeshift blade was still pressed up against his throat, she eased up. "Sorry about that," she murmured.

"Yeah," he grunted, still none too happy. "I can see that."

Unblinking, she slid the shiv up her sleeve. "Where's Michael?" she asked.

"What do you mean - Michael?" Seb questioned. "He should still be a couple hours behind us."

The café au lait skinned female spy arched an eyebrow at him. "Think again," she murmured. "He's here and so's Thor."

"Thor?" Seb parroted. "What's he doing here?"

Slipping into the hall, Marella cast a cautious glance down the hall. Her tone when she answered was cold. "I don't know, but I intend to find out."

Still trying to catch his breath, Seb stumbled out into the hall behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

File in hand, Mike Rivers leaned against Michael's desk a worried frown creasing his features. Lauren, while not very forthcoming at first, had been unable to hide her growing concern for her boss and Marella. It was obvious something was wrong, very wrong.

Well, there was no question where String and Airwolf had gone. He could only assume Seb and Roper were providing back-up since they were nowhere to be found. Still, all of them had been gone at least twelve hours and there'd been no word. Lauren wasn't the only one concerned now.

What to do? It wasn't like Hawke to miss a check in and it seemed strange that Marella had been out doing field work after all this time. Not impossible…but odd. And why hadn't Michael been told she was missing? If Lauren was to be believed, she'd been gone almost four days before he'd even been informed. While he could expect such cold-bloodedness from the FIRM, especially with Thor at the helm, it seemed unlikely they wouldn't have made moves to secure her files, to disallow access.

It sat uneasy in his stomach. No matter their propensity for eating their own, he couldn't imagine them leaving the information out there unprotected.

Fingering the file, he scowled. He needed help. He'd be willing to stake his life on the fact there was more to it.

Lauren hovered uncertainly in the doorway, obviously uneasy with him in Michael's private files, but at a loss as to what else to do. He sighed. It was apparent something was wrong, unfortunately Lauren lacked the skill and the clearance he needed to get to the bottom of it.

But Jade didn't. Decision made, he reached for the phone punching in her number.

* * *

Cold, steel grey eyes narrowed behind the binoculars. The contingent of armed men on the wall behind him got little notice. If Hawke got through the Haversham, they'd be of no use.

Assessing, he rubbed his thumb across the ridged edge of the field glasses he held. Hawke was better than halfway through. So far, he'd run it with the same cold efficiency that'd beaten two Haversham screens in the past, the only man who'd ever done it.

He smiled, the grin cold and evil. It'd be interesting to see what he did with the last half. A Haversham screen supplemented with the four prong multi-missile attack Van der Berg had originally designed for the Thor missile system, tweaked substantially, he doubted there was a man alive who could beat it - even Stringfellow Hawke.

"Thor!" Marella's voice, hard and angry cut across the wind.

Seething, he spun. What the heck was the woman doing out? He wondered reaching for his gun. He'd left explicit instructions concerning her…Incompetent fools, what did he pay them for?

"Stop right there," she bit out, leveling the gun she held at him.

He froze, his fingers on the gun. Whatever else she was, Marella was an excellent marksman. He figured he'd be wise not to push his luck in her present state of mind.

"Marella, my dear," he greeted her, the voice unassuming, soothing.

"Don't try me, Thor," she snarled. "Put the gun down."

Carefully, he finished reaching inside his jacket for the gun, dangling it between his thumb and forefinger as he extracted it.

A scuffle ensued off to her left, one of Thor's men seeing an opening and taking it. Caught by surprise, Seb abruptly found a nasty looking automatic shoved up against his temple. Spotting the movement out of the corner of her eye, Marella's attention wavered. Damn, he'd been right behind her. How had he managed that?

Thor took advantage of the momentary shift and seamlessly palmed his own gun - bringing it up to fire.

Staggering up the stairs Michael's weight heavy on his shoulders, Roper gained the top of the landing. They arrived just in time to see Thor palm the gun.

"Marella!" Michael yelled, abruptly snatching to attention. Her focus shifted to Seb's predicament, she never saw Thor raise his gun in her direction.

Reaching across Roper's body, Archangel lunged for the Beretta on his belt. His hand closing around the butt of it, he drew, clicking off the safety in one smooth motion as he did so.

Hearing Michael's yell, Marella turned, her eyes widening as she saw the gun in Thor's hand, knowing instinctively she was too late even as she did so. She heard the shot, followed almost simultaneously by a second one.

Seb dropped, slamming an elbow into his attacker's stomach. The man doubled over even as the youngest Hawke brother's back fist found its mark, breaking his nose. Rolling he hit the ground, recovering the gun as he went.

Caught in the heartbeat between shots, Michael watched as Thor's bullet found its mark, the impact taking Marella off her feet and down. His own bullet hit in a deadly head shot, dropping Thor where he stood.

On his knees, Seb provided cover, the gun in his hand making it apparent he wasn't fooling around.

Fighting to pull free, Archangel handed Roper's gun back to him as he limped forward. The younger man gripped the gun, warily joining Seb in providing cover for the downed agent and Michael in case any of Van der Berg's men showed up.

Airwolf's engines screamed overhead as she swooped over the building, executing a perfect split-s maneuver. Harmlessly, at least for her, a missile exploded on impact where she'd just been. Ducking flying debris, Roper shot a rueful glance at Seb. Thor's men might not kill them, but if they weren't careful Airwolf's fallout might.

Dropping to the bloodstained concrete beside Marella, Michael eyed the growing puddle beneath her with a sense of horror. Taking a shuddering breath, he reached for her.

Her eyes flickered open, pain hazing them. "Michael…?" she murmured.

"Shh," he whispered. "I'm here." Desperately, he tangled his fingers in hers, his throat tight.

The dark, brown mocha eyes focused on his. "Did you get that jerk?"

The tone was so blatantly irreverent he had to grin. "Yeah," he whispered. "I did."

"Good," she sighed on a shuddering breath. Her fingers tightened momentarily on his against the pain. "Then how 'bout getting me home?"

"You got it," he murmured, against the lump in his throat. Beside him, he could sense Seb rifling through his pack, pulling together makeshift first-aid supplies while Roper stood guard.

The rattle of 50 mm cannons overhead sent them all ducking as Airwolf made another blazing pass, her own chain guns rattling as she took out the second rocket launcher. The thudding of cannon fire sounded incredibly close, even to Michael's trained ears and he winced at the beating she had to be getting.

Pressing the gauze against Marella's wound, he looked upwards. Watching, he saw Hawke roll her right, the recovery wallowing a little as he pulled her out of the bank. A sparrow spewed from her belly, launching from the ADF pod and effectively taking out one of Van der Berg's Sikorsky S-70 gunships just starting to take off.

Archangel fought the urge to grin. She was a beauty to behold and in Hawke's hands she was like nothing he'd ever seen.

Weaving, she cut through the laser fire, ducking another missile as she took out the final rocket launcher.

The explosion shook the ground. "Whoo-hoo!" Roper yelled in exultation, high fiving Seb as he rose to his feet. Slapping each other on the back, the two men stood shoulder to shoulder, throwing up a congratulatory thumbs up sign to Hawke.

Skimming overhead wolf howl screaming on the wind, Airwolf sliced through the air. "Poetry in motion," Michael whispered, thinking he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

Abruptly, flak exploded in front of her, black puffs of acrid smoke tainting the air. Frantically, the three men tried to pinpoint the source of fire, as did Hawke. Banking, Airwolf climbed.

Hauling Marella upright in his arms Michael froze, his heart in his throat, watching. Hawke rolled Airwolf hard left avoiding more 50 mm cannon fire, only to take one across the starboard engine intake.

"Hell," the stunned curse slipped past Archangel's lips as he watched the helicopter take the blow, a blow that a second earlier or later wouldn't have mattered in the least.

Almost immediately, Airwolf wallowed, her gait wobbly, uneven and suddenly awkward.

"Get her up, String. Get her up," the words whispered across Michael's consciousness. He couldn't have said whether he had muttered them or Seb, the other man suddenly standing beside him, his face abruptly pale beneath his tan.

Roper stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder, sapphire eyes the exact same shade as Hawke's trained intently on the sky above.

Agonized, Michael watched her drop like a rock as Hawke fought for control. It was obvious, she was going down.

Marella's fingers tightened on his, snatching his attention momentarily away from the tableau in front of him. Watching her lips moving silently, he realized she was desperately praying as she watched the scene above unfold.

Jerking his own attention back to the helicopter, Archangel cringed, watching her nearly scrape the edge of the rocky hillside rim, as she just barely cleared it. Stunned, they all stared in shock for a long moment as she disappeared from sight.

And then a resounding explosion rent the air, deafening; a black cloud, oily and mushrooming, roiling over the mountainside. Instinctively, the three men threw their hands up shielding their eyes as did Marella.

"No," Seb whispered stunned as he stared at the cloud, shell-shocked, unmoving.

"Hawke…," Roper rasped, sounding like the sound was ripped from his throat.

Michael blinked, fighting the choking lump in his own throat. His mind was telling him they had to get out of here, even as his blood pounded in his ears. He bent awkwardly, gathering Marella into his arms, his own head bowed.

"No, Michael. Oh please, no. Not Hawke," she sobbed.

"Shh-h," he whispered, struggling up with her on his damaged knee.

Almost as if in a trance, Roper reached for her, lifting her out of Michael's arms. He turned desolate eyes to the spy, hoping, praying he was wrong.

Wearily, Michael shook his head, knowing Airwolf had been badly hit. From the size of the explosion, probably due in large part to the armaments she carried, he didn't see how anyone could've survived. Not even Stringfellow Hawke. "No," he whispered.

Roper looked away, his blue eyes filling with tears, even as his arms tightened around Marella.

Forcing a harsh breath, Seb fought down his own pain, hoping for numbness even as he desperately tried to pull himself together, to take charge of the situation. Whatever his personal feelings, it was his responsibility to get them all out of here. He'd promised String, and sure as hang wasn't going to fail him in this. "Let's go," he muttered grimly. "We have a helicopter to liberate."


	7. Chapter 7

Hawke fought the stick, Airwolf's wounded howl wrenching his ears. Sweat slicked his hands, and he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The claxion scream of the alarms scraped against his nerves, even as the ground rushed up to greet him. She was going down. There was no denying it, she was going down.

He crested the hill, fighting to keep her nose up. She went nose first, and those long sweeping rotors of hers hit first thing and he was dead. He knew it beyond a shadow of belief, the unwelcome memory of watching a helicopter in 'Nam going down rotors first and the momentum snapping them, slamming them into the cockpit and decapitating the crew coming back in grim detail. No, he definitely didn't want to go like that.

Hauling back on the collective, he wrenched her forward, engines screaming. Her underbelly scraped the jagged rocks below. He could feel the gouge of the rough rocks as they clawed against it, threatening to rip the stick from his hands.

And then, they were over, and taking more missile fire.

"What the…?" Snatching the stick over, two-handed, Hawke barely managed to avoid the missile that screamed towards him.

It slammed into the hillside, chewing rock and spewing it everywhere. The percussion from the blast wrenched Airwolf sideways, nearly clawing her from his death grip on the controls.

He hit the buttons to fire the ADF pod, praying he wasn't signing his own death warrant in doing so. He had no idea how much damage he'd done when he'd scraped her over that mountain, didn't even know if the missiles would deploy. If they didn't, he was dead splattered in a million pieces, if he didn't fire and a surface-to-air missile caught him, he was dead too.

Oh blast, he was pretty much dead, no matter what he did.

He hit the button for a Maverick, and it streamed away - missing, slamming into the ground short of the target. What he lacked in finesse, String made up for in sheer firepower, emptying the entire missile complement into the hillside below, Shrike included; taking out the mobile missile launcher and pretty much everything else on the hillside as well.

Knowing he was going down, he fought to maneuver the Lady past a jutting rock outcropping, clearing it by inches. "Nose up, get your nose up," he muttered. Tail first, she bumped once, twice, the momentum slinging her forward, rattling his teeth.

The bone-jarring slam of her wrenching forward, hitting hard on her struts snapped his head forward, thwacking it into the console in front of him, and him into blissful darkness; as her rotors ripped into the rock ahead of him and sheared with a demonic shriek. Thankfully, Hawke never heard it.

* * *

Silently grim, the group made their way down the steep stone steps to where Van der Berg's Sikorsky S-70 sat. Armed to the teeth, she glistened dully in the late afternoon sun.

Limping, Michael covered their rear as Seb took the front. Taking the helicopter was remarkably easy, ironically enough. A couple shots from above on the wall, easily dispensed of by a return shot of Michael's. He barely registered the man falling.

And then, they were climbing aboard; Michael first, Roper handing Marella off to him. Seb went around taking the pilot's position, kicking the rotors into action. Roper clambered in beside him.

"Ready?" Seb asked, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. They couldn't get out of this place fast enough to suit him.

"Yeah," Michael muttered.

Pulling back on the collective, he lifted the Sikorsky into the air struggling momentarily with the unfamiliar helicopter and then they were airborne. Shifting his weight on the rudder pedals, he pointed the helicopter towards home - also unfortunately in the direction of the crash. He swallowed hard. He didn't know about the others, but he wasn't ready to face the sight yet, didn't know if he would ever be.

And then, the controls shifted subtly in his hands. Startled, he turned meeting Roper's somber gaze.

"I'll do it, Seb," he murmured.

Seb nodded, guiltily relieved not to have to face the sight. He let go of the controls, and slumped back in the seat wearily.

Angling the blades down, Roper nosed her forward, sweeping her effortlessly along. He was no keener than Seb to see what remained of Hawke's Lady, but he couldn't go home without doing so. Drawing a ragged breath, he pushed the cyclic forward, edging the helicopter over the crest of the hill.

Stunned, he gulped, taking in the yawing black pit. Surely one helicopter couldn't create that kinda devastation, he thought. Not even Airwolf. Flames licked the brush, curling wickedly under the Sikorsky's downdraft. The ground surrounding the gaping pit was blackened, tarry. Debris scattered across the ground. Painfully, he was reminded of a scene he'd once seen from Dante's Inferno. Hellish didn't even begin to depict what he saw below.

Whatever had taken place had apparently taken out the last of the surface-to-air missile launchers. He could tell that much from the debris, and not much more - there wasn't enough left.

Behind him, he heard rather than saw Marella struggle to the engineer's console, the surveillance equipment almost as sophisticated as Airwolf's. Running scans," she murmured huskily, her own voice uncharacteristically choked.

Michael gripped his shoulder, as he peered across the console, a solid and surprisingly comforting support and presence.

Looking at the destruction below, he couldn't see how anything, let alone anyone could survive that explosion.

"Nothing," Marella finally whispered, the pain in her voice coming clearly across the headset. Beside him, Seb moaned softly. "The weapon debris is definitely Airwolf's. I have to imagine the radiation is from the Shrike missile. Good chance there wasn't much left to find of the helicopter when the missiles detonated."

Roper grimaced, feeling Michael's hand tighten reflexively on his shoulder. She was nothing if not blunt.

"Want me to land her?" Roper choked out.

Michael cast a glance at Marella seated at engineering. She shook her head, no. There'd be nothing left to find, he realized wearily. If Airwolf hadn't survived the crash with her armor-plating and composite hull, then the chance of finding human remains, even Hawke's, was almost non-existent.

"No," he muttered, every nuance of his body and voice exhibiting fatigue and exhaustion. "It's time to go home."

Numbly, Roper nodded, raising the Sikorsky's nose and heading for Red Star.

* * *

The flight back to Red Star was grim, almost silent. The Sikorsky wasn't Airwolf and it showed in the unrelenting ache seated in Roper's shoulders and arms. He wasn't going to complain though, he figured Seb had enough on his mind looking at him, his head leaned wearily against the window. He knew the trip was a long way from over, even once they got back to red Star.

Marella had been silent the past couple of hours. A quiet conference with Michael through the headset confirmed she was asleep. He was glad somebody was. He didn't think he'd be getting any rest any time soon.

The earlier welcome distraction of piloting the unfamiliar Sikorsky had faded in the subsequent miles, leaving him with an aching body and far too much time to think. Michael hadn't sounded too hot himself when he'd talked to him either. Tiredly, he wondered if whatever Van der Berg had given him was still making its presence known. He hoped it wasn't going to become a problem before they made it to Red Star. Somehow, he had a feeling Michael would be about as accommodating as Hawke when it came to being checked out this time.

The thought of Hawke pressed in heavily against him. It seemed so strange to think he was gone. Bitterly he realized he'd lost a father, only to gain and lose another before he'd had a chance to really know him.

Once again, he was in essence alone. With Hawke gone, everything shifted once more. He still had no real place, nowhere he fit.

He sighed. Some things never really changed.

* * *

Roper touched the Sikorsky helicopter down at Red Star in the early hours of the morning. Casting a weary glance at Rivers and Jade standing there on the tarmac waiting, he sighed even as he reached up for his helmet.

Seb cursed, hauling off his own helmet, throwing it angrily into the cockpit floor as he scrambled out.

Roper frowned, the blue eyes narrowing as he watched the other's hurt and frustrated retreat. It had been decided to wait to tell the others about Hawke and Airwolf 'til they got back, seeming somehow wrong to share the news before Saint John and Cait were informed. It looked like the time had arrived though, whether the others were there or not.

Reaching across the seat, Michael's hand gripped his shoulder offering silent sympathy.

And then the medical team was there, hustling Marella out, Michael in her wake.

Clambering out of the helicopter, Roper swung down, dropping heavily to the concrete. Hunching his shoulders against the biting wind, he drew in a deep breath before turning towards the hanger.

Seb was heading for the far side of the hanger, at a near run.

Rivers and Jade waited, worried, questions in their eyes.

Sucking in a harsh breath, Roper started towards them.

Mike frowned, his blue eyes flashing to the Sikorsky behind him and back.

He could tell the exact instant realization hit, the grimace of pain crashing across River's boyish face. Beside him, Jade's hand came up covering the shocked 'oh' of her mouth, her gaze flying from him to Seb striding furiously off.

And then, she was running, long black hair sliding free from its clips as she ran for Seb, like the hounds of hell were behind her.

Roper could hear her calling for Seb, where he stood. And then Jade was there, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close.

Rivers met him halfway, the sparkling blue eyes sober. "Hawke?" he whispered, his voice gruff.

Roper nodded.

"How?" he rasped, suddenly looking every one of his years.

"Haversham screen."

Rivers cursed, looking away at the lightening horizon. Somehow he'd known as soon as he'd heard Roper's call for clearance on the Sikorsky, but he'd hoped…

"The Lady, too huh?" he let out an audible breath, still not meeting Hawke's son's gaze. He couldn't. Eyes still on the horizon line, he swallowed. "Well," he rasped. "I guess it fits. She was always his anyhow."

* * *

Lauren was waiting on Michael by the time he'd made it to his office, Marella being seen to by the Firm clinic's doctors.

His movements tired, jerky, Michael snatched the whiskey decanter off the sideboard to pour himself a generous shot into the glass.

Frowning, Lauren raised an eyebrow in disapproval. "You sure that's a good idea, sir?" she asked.

Decanter halfway to the glass Archangel froze, the single-eyed glare he shot her, deadly.

"…uh, I mean before you've been checked out by medical," she backpedaled hastily.

"I have been checked out by medical," he snarled. "They have no idea what the long term effects are of the drugs Van der Berg used are. So far as I can tell, I'm fine," he said splashing amber-colored whiskey into the glass, slugging half of it down in a single gulp. "More than I can say for Hawke and Airwolf," he growled, slamming the glass down on the counter.

"Sir?"

"Get Samantha on the line," he ordered grimly. "I need a pilot. Now!"

"Yes, sir," the petite blonde murmured, realizing maybe now wasn't the time to argue. She backed towards the door.

Silently, Michael lifted the glass to his lips a second time, taking a sip. He paused, hauling in a harsh breath. "Close the door on you way out, Lauren."

"Yes, sir," she acquiesced, shooting him a worried glance as she did so.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Michael set the crystal glass back down with a thump. His hand was shaking as he did so. She was right, he mulled angrily, watching the fine tremors in his fingers. It was untelling what Van der Berg had given him.

Abruptly, he snatched the glass up, hurling it at the paneled wall. "Damn it, Hawke!" he snarled. "What am I supposed to tell Caitlin and Saint John?" Crashing, the glass shattered, slinging shards against the wall. It gave him little satisfaction.

* * *

The white jet ranger flared, gently settling to the ground in front of the Santini Air hanger.

Hearing the distinctive whomp-whomp of chopper blades outside, Saint John pushed stiffly to his feet. Jo was gone on a charter, not due back for another half hour so he'd have to handle it.

Not that he minded; it was good to be anywhere except the hospital, and Jo had been more than great about helping out at the hanger with String gone. And they were talking, he mused. A little awkwardly sometimes, but they were both making an effort. Kylie had been right. It was going to take some time, but at least it seemed possible again.

The sound of a second chopper joining the first teased his ears. Curiosity getting the better of him, Saint John strode out of the cramped office into the hanger, a welcoming smile on his face.

Sikorsky S-70, he thought raising an eyebrow. Nice bird. Not exactly something you saw everyday, he mused.

Settling to the ground beside the gleaming white jet ranger, the helicopter landed. Rotors still whirling, Seb and Rivers dropped out of the cockpit followed by Jade, only to go around to the side where the jet ranger sat.

Saint John straightened, the smile sliding off his face as his eyes narrowed. There was only one reason he could think of for the entire group to be here.

"Damn," he muttered, a sinking feeling in his gut as he watched Michael help an obviously injured Marella out of the jet ranger. There was no sign of String.


	8. Chapter 8

Sitting on the dock, a cup of coffee in hand, Caitlin O'Shaunessy Hawke watched the sun go down over Eagle Lake, painting the sky shades of pink, purple, and orange, colors bleeding into the sky, into the shadows.

The Sikorsky had come and gone, heavy blades chopping the air. She'd known as soon as she'd seen it come across the mountain, had known when she'd seen Michael and the others disembark. She'd known, and she'd fought it with every breath of her body.

Hawke couldn't be gone. She could still smell his scent on his shirt that she wore, feel his touch on her skin, almost hear the sound of the Stradivarius sob beneath his fingers. The coffee cup slid from suddenly nerveless fingers, hitting the wood deck of the dock with a dull thunk as the tears slid down her cheeks. No, she repeated to herself, he couldn't be gone.

Quiet steps paced the length of the dock, stopping next to her. Beside her, soft, worn jeans brushed her thigh as Hawke's oldest son dropped down beside her. Strong, slender fingers interlaced with hers as he reached for her hand, gripping it in his own.

Caitlin raised tear-filled blue-green eyes to search his blue ones, eyes so uncannily like Hawke's.

"How can he be gone?" she whispered, bemused. "How can he be gone, and I still be here? I just don't understand…"

Roper sighed, his own chest aching, as he ran a frustrated hand through his shock of sun-bleached brown hair. "I don't know, Cait," he murmured his own voice tight. "I just don't know."

Sobbing, Cait flung herself into his arms, giving over to the pain in her heart. Bowing his head, Roper held her, stroking her hair as his own tears fell.


	9. Chapter 9 Epilogue

Epilogue -

The morning of the memorial for Hawke dawned clear and cold. An icy wind blew off the lake, tugging Cait's reddish hair loose from its pins. Beside the lake, the others gathered to say their goodbyes. A week to the day, it still seemed surreal, impossible. Michael suddenly understood Hawke's refusal all those years ago to believe Saint John's death - without a body, the mind fought for denial.

He'd seen the scene himself though, known firsthand the damage only those weapons could do, both on paper and in reality. From the size of the hole in the ground and the debris field, he couldn't see risking more lives on a recovery mission, not with knowing Van der Berg was still out there and logic telling him there wouldn't be much if anything left to find. But it still seemed a betrayal, knowing he'd sent him out there. Looking at the lake, he bowed his head in silence, saying one last prayer for the man he'd considered both an ally and friend these many years.

Marella slipped up beside him, her smaller hand slipping into his and squeezing it.

Gratefully, he looked down at her, thanking both God and Hawke she'd been returned to him. Watching Cait and the two children down by the water's edge, he knew the cost had been high. He sighed.

It'd been a cost Hawke had been willing to pay if necessary, but one he didn't know if he could ever reconcile himself with.

Saint John and Jo stood hand in hand on the other side. One of the last to arrive, he'd worried about Jo's state of mind with her red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands, but it was she who consoled Saint John now. His rangy body bowed with grief, Jo was the one who held the wolf at the door today.

Michael groaned. Poor turn of phrase. He couldn't think of wolves and not think of Hawke and Airwolf. Strange relationship those two. If one was gone, he supposed it was fitting they both were.

Seb and Jade walked up, Rivers on their heels. Hawke had had his doubts there he knew. He'd be glad to know they'd been wrong, glad Seb had seemed to find someone, even if it was within the community. Watching them, Michael was struck again by how young they were. He only prayed they'd be less touched by the death and espionage that had dogged his and Stringfellow's lives every step of the way. He only hope so, surely if anybody deserved it, they did.

The last of Hawke's friends and family showed up, a somber and quiet group as they walked down the path from the cabin. The minister walked with them, still a little wide-eyed from the helicopter ride that had flown them all in.

Michael grinned, yeah, Hawke would've liked that, would've been amused. Flying had been such an extension of his own life, he'd always found it strange so many found themselves so earthbound. He would've liked knowing thanks to him, another soul had been thrust into the air, if only for a moment, to wing its way with the angels.

Pausing by the water's edge and raising his hands, the minister motioned for them to gather, to begin. And the little group huddled in, shrugging off the biting wind from the lake. Holding hands, he solemnly began.

"Today, we are gathered here, to honor the life of Stringfellow Hawke; brother, father, husband, son and friend. His was a life of honor and love…"


End file.
